mur to beckon them away, helps to turn the mind upon itself, of all situations, to most men, the most insupportable. They feel themselves the centre of a scene, from which they cannot fly: past pleasures are now converted to present pain, while the present moment, in imagination, is to last forever.

Those of the English, who know how, think as much or more, than any people. Yet those who think most, do not always think most happily. Some people, at the end of a reverie, find themselves in the slough of sensuality; others think only to get rid of themselves, while some bring themselves to the sad conclusion that it would be madness in them to be happy. The English, I believe, think less happily, than any people. They scarcely affect happiness to hide their misery. Montesquieu, you recollect, attributes this to their form of government, rather than to their climate. This merits attention. I will never admit that a free people,* so Montesquieu termed the English, are less happy than a tyrant could render them. But I can easily believe that, a people feeling their incapacity to enjoy those rights which their constitution of government acknowledges, will be unhappy in proportion to their sensibility: while the frequent changes of weather will give a sad cast to their dispositions. The great

* Whenever I call the English free, I mean comparative freedom.

body of every people are secure from the violent passions: a free people, less, indeed; but their jealousy, sensibility and transient violence, are rather a proof of their happiness; for their passions are never excited, except when they imagine they are about to lose either part or the whole of that, which Montesquieu thinks the chief cause of their misery.

Adieu,

LETTER XIX.

LONDON, MARCH 16th.

THE subject of the following letter is so remote from common life, that I am willing it should be considered a romance, rather than a real history. Yet the incident, which has given rise to it, discovers as fine a trait of character, as any which ancient history can boast.

The virtuous, when most suspected, undergo only the suspicion of hypocrisy: the vicious seem to claim no other indulgence, than to have it distinguished between a deficiency of moral principle, the allurement of untried scenes, and irresistible temptation. Still, cases may be supposed, where the highest virtue is obliged to assume the garb of vice, and endure the penance.

The young gentleman, who was sometime since my companion in Newman Street,* called on me this morning, and related the following adventure, which, in order to render as interesting as possible, I shall quote in his own words.

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When I had gained her confidence, I

asked her, how it happened, that so many of the

* See Letter IX.-Newman Street.

fairest girls in the world, should prefer what was so erroneously called a life of pleasure, to the calm enjoyments of a heart at ease? For I had never found one, however sweetly she might smile, or however bright the roses might bloom in the first moments of youth and health, whose present was not embittered by the future. "And do you think me unhap py?" "Indeed I do, there is an anxiety preying on your heart, which all your earnestness to render yourself pleasing, serves only to render more evident. It is true, this may render you more interesting to people of sensibility; but you meet with few of these, their sensibility would keep them from you." "You did not discover this, when you were here before?" "No, I did not stay long enough: beside, the unexpected appearance of two strangers, together with our rapid conversation, gave you an animated look, which I now suspect was transient as the occasion." 'But, pray, what do you see in my countenance, or what have you observed in my conversation, that leads you to think me unhappy?” "Why, you converse too sensibly not to be wretched when you are alone; and with respect to your looks, I am much mistaken if you have not been crying this morning."-This was unexpected: she burst into tears. After a moment's silence, she looked up, and beaming upon me a coun

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tenance of more than human innocence, which the steadiness of her watery eyes confirmed, said she was indeed unhappy, but I was mistaken in the cause. I requested her to proceed; she attempted, but her swoln heart did not permit her. What could I do?" *

"The next morning, I found her dis

posed to confidence. The confidence of a woman in distress is easily gained, if she believe you worthy of it. Her former gaiety had given place to a composed melancholy, and she seemed as though I had learnt her story before she told it: hence, with little or no embarrassment, she proceeded to tell me how unhappy it was, under the loss of reputation and the disgrace of the world, to retain the principles of virtue, which become more dear in retrospection.” "I do not understand you," I observed. "You will directly-I am ruined, and what distresses me most, I am ruined in the opinion of those for whose sake alone I have ruined myself." "This is the case with all those who are seduced." "Wait a little, you do not understand me: I never was seduced; I have known how to resist both the attacks of passion, and the half credited words of persuasion. Still I am ruined, and yet my heart tells me,